


milk and honey glue your eyes shut

by Wallissa



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, First Meetings, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 16:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16099319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Red Riding Hood, he thinks to himself as the car breaches the treeline and the light dims around him, is a tale to warn children not to go with strangers. It’s the same idea. Educational fairy tales. Don’t wander the woods alone or something will get you.Rick doesn't exactly believe in the stories, but thankfully Daryl does.(a mix of sugar, blood and superstition, greedy hands and burning hot caramel)





	milk and honey glue your eyes shut

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this was supposed to be a 3-4k fic, I really don't know what happened. But I've had this idea in my mind for months now and finally put it down. The whole thing is based on the song [Jesolo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3zD0O_jvkU) by Bilderbuch. The melody is pretty disharmonic and not that easy to listen to at first, maybe, but I found that very fitting for the story. If you'd like to read a translation of the lyrics - I've put them in the read more of [this post](http://spiritinggently.tumblr.com/post/178463217979/milk-and-honey-glue-your-eyes-shut-red-riding). The poetry of this band's lyrics isn't easy to translate (to me at least), since it's odd-sounding in the original version as well. But I tried. The title of the fic was taken from this song, and many elements were inspired by it as well.

Rick checks his watch, fingertips drumming on the steering wheel. It’s one of those things that you don’t believe in, but respect nonetheless. Laughing while passing by a graveyard, breaking mirrors, walking underneath ladders, those things. Six forty-five. It won’t be dark for another hour at least and the road through the woods only takes twenty minutes. Fifteen if he speeds a little.

He’s gradually slowed down as he’s come closer to the road that forks off the highway and now he clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. Six forty-five and the wind rushing by the car is still warm, dipping into the window and stroking his arm. After the hot, dry august they’ve had, the leaves already start to turn and in the late afternoon sun everything is humming in gold. Rick can hear the leaves in the wind, an ocean, a distant crowd, and he finally sets his blinker and takes the right turn. 

Red Riding Hood, he thinks to himself as the car breaches the treeline and the light dims around him, is a tale to warn children not to go with strangers. It’s the same idea. Educational fairy tales. Don’t wander the woods alone or something will get you.  
It’s cooler now that the green-golden trees shield away the sunlight. Rick breathes in the scent of sun-warm pine trees and rolls up the window. Six fifty. The radio starts crackling and Rick turns it down, then off all the way, the dim light reflecting in the wristband of his watch. 

The road isn’t bad, after all it’s well travelled by 364 days of the year, but Rick slows the car nonetheless. Leaves and branches litter the road, probably due to the wind picking up at night, and Rick doesn’t want to risk accidentally messing up the paint job. The branches snapping sound like bones and he shakes his head, laughing at his own thoughts. His Python safely tucked away in the glove department. 

In itself, the drive is hardly interesting. A smooth curve to the left, gold around him, trees losing themselves to both sides of the road, silence in the car. A bit like driving through amber, Rick thinks to himself. Smooth, relaxing. Enough with these fairy tales and ghost stories. Fifteen minutes and the woods will spit his car out by the car wash. Another ten or so and he’ll be at Enid’s house in time to get shooed off the driver’s seat by Carl. 

Rick doesn’t look away from the road as he picks up his phone on the passenger’s seat, but spares it a glance to check-  
A crash shakes the car. Rick drops the phone and steps on the brakes, momentum slamming him forward, the seat belt a sharp pain against his chest. Something big under the front wheels, no cracking sound. For a second everything stills, front up like a horse frozen mid-jump. Finally, it tips. The car shakes as the front wheels come crashing down again, vibrating through Rick’s bones. Teeth rattling. The phone screen shines in the dim light. No missed calls.  
“Fuck.”

Rick promised to pick Carl up at 7.  
They’ll probably be too tired to cook the casserole he’d planned for dinner.  
The guys at the station will have fucking field day if he comes in after hitting a deer.  
_“Fuck!“_

Maybe it’s still alive. No signal, maybe he’ll have to drive to town and get a vet. But it’s under the front wheels, how’s he going to drive over it without killing it? Rick stares at the road, lit up by his headlights. The steering wheel is wet where he’s gripping it, white knuckles. His teeth ache from the landing and he’s thankful his tongue was safely tucked away somewhere. No signal, he would’ve had to drive to the nearest hospital with blood dripping down his chin. He shakes his head, closes his eyes for a second.  
It’s hardly his fist car turbulence. 

Python.  
Check on the animal.  
Check on the car.  
Get help.

That list in mind, he turns, slowly unsticks his hands from the steering wheel. Right hand on the passenger seat, left on the glove department. Maybe it’s the long day he’s had, maybe it’s the crash, the adrenaline, the darkness in the car, but it takes him a moment to open the latch. A warm glow, his fingertips slip over a pen, paper, find the gun.  
Before closing the lid he checks his watch in the light of the orange little light bulb. Six fifty. If he get’s lucky and he doesn’t have to call the vet, doesn’t have to get a mechanic, maybe then he’ll be there in time.

Rick already has the car door open when it occurs to him. Maybe it’s not a deer.  
If it’s a wounded wildcat or something – a bear? Was the thing too small for a bear? – it might be wiser to be careful. He freezes, the tip of his left boot peaking out from the open car door. Silence. His own breathing, his own heartbeat. No hissing. No groaning.  
Slowly, Rick puts his weight on his left foot, very conscious of how the car dips and adjusts to his movements.  
Still nothing.  
With a deep breath, Rick steps out of the car. 

It’s warm. Dark.  
Like he stepped into a warm pool. Rick takes a step back, facing the car, leaves crunching under his boots. The Python is warm and heavy in his right hand and he slowly crouches down. The light pouring out of his open door makes it harder to see what’s underneath the car and Rick’s knees hit the pavement. He dips his head a little, eyes burning, mouth dry. The trigger is slippery against his finger.  
Asphalt. Leaves. The treeline.  
There is nothing underneath the car.

For a second, Rick just stares, frowns into the darkness, partially blinded by the light from his car still. Finally, he blinks and- just as his eyes close, through his lashes, he sees movement in the treeline. Blinks once, twice, jumps to his feet, looks over his car into the trees on the other side- nothing.  
Darkness.

Maybe it wasn’t that injured, then. Rick stands, unsure, gun heavy by his side. The day’s warmth seems to have lingered between the trees, his shirt is sticking to his back. It got away.  
He’s got the tomatoes in the trunk, if he hurries-  
One hand on the car door, he stops.  
“Fuck.”  
He slams the door shut and rounds the car. With his back to it, he locks the doors and the lights turn off. It’s dark.  
Rick blinks a few times, trying to get used to the darkness as he steps down the road into the mess of sticks and stones and leaves. One hand on the tree closest to him, he peers into the darkness ahead, but spots are still dancing in front of his eyes, so he looks down.

No blood. Or so he assumes. It’s too fucking dark, the sun won’t set for another half hour at least. Automatically, Rick tips his head up to peer at the sky, but above him is nothing but leaves and more darkness.  
Five minutes, he tells himself. Five minutes and he’ll get into his damn car and forget all about that deer. Or whatever it was.

They’ve done this before, looking for things in the dark. People, usually. Clothes, things like that. And on one memorable occasion, a bullet. On one of the training runs back in the day in the academy. Someone had come back with one bullet missing and the whole gang had been sent out to look for it. At night. Safety and whatnot.  
He feels like that now, stalking through the darkness, sweat licking down his spine, hair curling up and tickling the shell of his ear. Staring blindly on the ground, locking for a shimmer or something, annoyed and tense and tired and nervous. But they’d remembered to take torchlights then.

He hears nothing but the crunch and crack of his own boots on the ground and there is nothing to be seen. No blood, no footprints, no spiders, no mice. Nothing.  
Rick straightens, looks up to the treetops again. His gaze loses itself in the darkness above. Birds hide during the night. Bats hunt in the fields. He feels like he’s standing in an empty church. Absolute silence. Absence of sound.

It’s warm. There’s a smell in the air.  
Rick frowns a little, turns around. He’s too far away from the car to see it through the trees. There’s no movement around him. 

What is that smell?

The animal he hit wouldn’t smell like that, not yet at least.  
He swallows thickly. Looks to the right, the left. Takes a step towards the oak, another one, there’s a little group of pines, branches hanging on the sandy ground, darkness spilling between them. Not a sound. The animal wouldn’t hide there, would it? Rick sways towards it, then away. There is so much nothing around him that he feels surrounded by something. He turns a little, keeps the void between the trees in his vision as he walks away from it, shoulder bumping against another tree painfully. He looks ahead again and there’s an oak tree. The air seems thick with the scent now and Rick steps to the left of the oak tree. A branch snaps under his left boot and he freezes. 

Absence of sound. Smell pouring down his nostrils into his lungs. He places his left hand on the tree next to him and his fingers sink into a wet substance. Alarmed, Rick pulls his hand back and watches as the substance sticks to his skin, strings connecting it to the tree for barely a second, then break. Resin. His vision blurs at the edges. His lungs hurt. His heartbeat is painfully loud until he can’t hear anything else, not even his own footsteps as he stumbles along, bones cracking under his boots. He clenches his fist, resin oozing out between his fingers. The darkness a few metres ahead looks liquid. Filling with vague nothingness.  
His vision swims and he feels heavy, like he’s walking through a pool, sweat stings in his eyes, shadows stretching and moving between the trees, bubbling in and out of shape, there’s a hand on his shoulder.

Rick sways as he turns around, his eyes can’t adjust and he sees two faint outlines of something. A double something-someone. Someone he didn’t hear coming and Rick stumbles backwards but the person reaches out with their left, something in their right hand catches the light and for barely a second, Rick feels relief sagging into his knees. A knife. No shadow, no-  
If it’s a knife, this is a person.  
The grip grinds his bones and Rick stumbles again, towards the person this time. He tries to grab the knife, wrestle it off, standard moves, but his hand barely opens, fingers melted together with slick. In an uncoordinated move, he grabs the wrist of the person anyways and-

“The fuck’s that?”

The voice like a gunshot in the void, a cracking bone in the dark. They both tense. Between the trees, darkness seems to pour in, almost solidifying. The scent is melting Rick’s brain.  
His sight is clearer now. He stares at the man, finds eyes under dark bangs.  
They break into a sprint.

Shadows are cooking, bubbling, forming organic shapes around them and out of the corner of his eyes, Rick thinks he sees- something. Movement. Solid bodies. But they’re too fast, the stranger taking the lead and Rick glued to him, running into him at a sharp turn, almost tipping them over, he flails, a mess of arms and legs and ground and- a bang, the collision shaking through the stranger. White, a trailer, that’s all Rick can make out before the guy pulls at the door he stumbled against when Rick ran into him and tips them both inside.

They tumble into the dark. A scuffle where they both pull in, elbows and knees and boots scratching over hard floor, slipping, until the guy’s on his feet again, leans out, grabs the door and slams it shut.

Darkness.

Rick is on his back, lets his head fall against the floor and stares at nothing. His chest hurts. His knees hurt. His hand is sticky. It smells like cigarettes, warm dust, canned ravioli, hot wax. Finally, the other man moves, Rick hears it in the darkness. The crack of his joints as he squats down next to him. A rattle, a hiss, a match in front of his face.  
Rick groans at the sudden, blinding light and squints at the man. A hand and a face, illuminated by the flickering flame.

Cheekbones. A surprisingly light beard considering the hair is such a dark shade of brown. Eyes. The guy has his gaze set firmly on Rick, staring at him.  
“The fuck’s that shit on my hand, man? The fuck’re y’doin’ outside?”

His voice isn’t as loud anymore now that they’re inside, but it’s rough, raw. Before Rick can answer, the match burns down and the stranger shakes his hand to put the fire out before it reaches his fingers. The rush of air tells Rick when the guy get’s up and there’s the rattling sound again before the next match hisses. When the first candle is lit, Rick begins to remember that the place he’s in is more than just a nameless darkness with him and the guy who saved him. 

In the shine of the candle he makes out the table with the corner bench, the drawn curtains that melt into the darkness. Two knives lay by the bottle that serves as a candlestick, next to a leather strap. There’s a stack of magazines, half-fallen apart and shoved towards one corner of the table with a dirty plate on top, next to that two more candles. It’s warm. 

Rick slowly gets up, careful not to drip the resin everywhere. “Thank you.” He says after careful consideration, watching as the stranger lights the remaining two candles.  
“The sticky substance is resin, I touched a tree and got a handful of it.”  
A drip of it lands on the magazine that’s laying on top of the stack and Rick sees now that it’s a ratty looking Hustler, dog eared, a tear right through the girl’s left leg. Rick looks to the left, where he can now make out a gas oven next to a sink. “I- could I wash my hands?” 

The guy looks at him still, like he’s considering it. “Gun down.”  
Rick looks down and right. “Oh. Yeah. I’m- sorry, yeah.” He checks that the safety is on, then shoves the gun into the back of his jeans. 

The resin comes of as easily as one might expect, which is not very. Dish soap and cold water finally do the job and Rick wipes his hands dry on his jeans as he turns around. “I mean it. I don’t know what got into me. I hit something with my car and wanted to make sure it wasn’t dead, but it must’ve gotten away. And then- I don’t know, I must’ve lost my way.”

The guy uses the third candle to light four more on the counter next to Rick before moving on to the oven, turning it on and using the candle again to put on the flame. The clang of metal on metal as the guy puts a small pot onto the stove. “Your mind is what you lost, man. Middle of the night, this night, what’re you thinkin’?” 

Rick frowns at him, his arms folded in front of his chest, watching as the guy finally washes his own hands. Not as bad as Rick’s but certainly sticky enough to leave prints on the pot. Spilling over the leg of the blonde. “I had the accident shortly after six fifty. It can’t be that late.”

The guy looks up, shaking off his hands. “Six fifty? It’s ‘bout midnight.”

“That can’t be right. I checked my watch, it was-“ He checks his watch. Six fifty. “I- what?”

“Watches don’t work. Electricity don’t work. What do you think this is?” The guy gestures at the candles around them, then grabs a wooden spoon from somewhere in the dim light and opens a cupboard, pulls out two cans, puts one down with the spoon. “And you hit nothing.” 

His hair falls in front of his face as he tilts his head down to consider the can in his hand, checking the latch. Rick tries to make out his features to see if he’s joking. “I- What do you mean, I hit nothing?”

With a shrug, the guy walks over to the table to grab one of the knives. “You hit nothin’, is what I’m saying. They just wanted to get you out of the car. ‘n it worked like a damn charm, asshole.” A slick sound as he sinks the knife into the can, quick and practised, almost making Rick jump. Pearly white oozing out of the slit as he pulls out the blade.

At that, Rick shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth a few times. “I- Are you referring to the whole-“ He tilts his head a little, well aware of how disbelieving he sounds. “The ghost story?” Finally, Rick manages to look away from the slick blade to meet the guy’s eyes again.

“You seen it, didn’t ya?” Sucking some of the milky white off his fingers the guy makes eye contact with Rick again, cheekbones hollowing. “You gon’ sit down?” He’s half turned back to the counter, sticky knife still in his hand, licking his thumb. The blade catches the candlelight and Rick frown a little at himself. He pulls out his gun and carefully places it on the table, sits. His elbow brushes the stack of magazines and he has to reach out to straighten it again.

“I’m Rick Grimes, by the way.” He offers his hand at the half turned back and the guy huffs, turns just enough to take it. His thumb almost wet against Rick’s skin.  
“Daryl.”

“You- you live here?”

“Sometimes. Wasn’t gonna try ‘n move today, though.”

“Yeah, that- I mean, I guess that makes sense. Sorry about the gun.”

Daryl shakes his head and finally turns to the stove, cracking his neck a little. Between the candles and the cooker, the small space is heating up rapidly. Daryl pours the content of the can into the little pot, shaking it a little, supposedly because the sluggish liquid isn’t coming out easily. Rick can’t see from this angle. “The hell is that?”

“Condensed milk.”

That explains the overly sweet scent that fills the room now. And the colour. “I see.”  
Rick watches the line of Daryl’s shoulders, accentuated by the dark button down he’s wearing, but broken by the long hair. Some of it slipped into the collar of the shirt, but Daryl doesn’t move to pull it free.  
Rick rolls up the sleeves of his own shirt. It’s warm.  
“It’s warm in here.”

“Don’t open the window.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s not the same type of silence Rick was caught in outside. There’s the soft sizzling of the candles, the breathy sound of the gas and the wooden spoon scraping against the metal of the pot. 

“How come you knew I was out there.”

“Made a whole bunch of noise, stumbling around like that.”

“So you put out the candles, turned off the stove and went to look for me?”

Daryl tenses and turns around, frowning at Rick. There’s a little bit of milk on his top lip, but he wipes it away with the back of his hand. “The fuck? Sure did, don’t want none of that guilt on me when you get all-“ He makes a vague sound and turns around again to grab the second can, stabbing it with the same practised move. A bigger hole this time.

Rick relaxes into the seat, eyes on Daryl’s shoulders, watching the muscles move underneath the fabric. The sound of liquid on liquid. Daryl huffs a little and shakes his head a bit and finally sets the can down to run a sticky hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. His shoulders are tense.

“So- you’re on your own out here?”

“For the time bein’. Someone waitin’ for you at home? ‘Cause you’re not gonna set foot out there ‘till dawn.”

Rick looks at the drawn curtains, fingers twitching a little. _Wouldn’t dream of it._  
“Yeah, in a way. Was supposed to pick up my son at seven.”

Daryl grunts, clanging the spoon against the rim of the pot to shake some of the condensed milk off. Rick watches the way he rolls his shoulders back and the pad of his thumb finds his ring finger, stroking along the thin stripe of paler skin. “I’m sure he’ll be alright. My ex-wife won’t be too upset about having him around a little longer.”

The milk is starting to bubble and the scent reminds Rick of candy apples. Dark fabric bunches up, pulls, a body playing hide and seek.  
“My brother stays here sometimes.” Daryl doesn’t turn, although Rick’s eyes must burn between his shoulder blades. “Likes to ‘njoy the view‘n read.” 

“I see.”

“C’mere for a sec.”

Rick get’s up and doesn’t look at the magazine again.  
Instead, he makes sure to get on Daryl’s left to not hinder his movements. With all the candles it should be easier to make out the contents of the pot, but Rick still steps in close, hand resting on the counter next to the stove. The condensed milk has thickened further, a brown mass bubbling sluggishly as Daryl continues to slowly stir it. Caramelised, Rick finally realises. 

“There’s another way to make it.” Daryl says after a pause, eyes on the spoon. “Y’ take the can and put it in a pot of water, let it boil for a few hours. Less stirrin’, but it ruins all the pots.” Rick nods, shifting his weight to one foot. His knee brushing against jeans for barely a second.

Daryl reaches down between them to turn down the flames. His eyes are still on the creamy caramel when the back of his hand brushes against Rick’s belt. Barely, accidental. Daryl slips his hand into his back pocket, pulling out the red handkerchief. He uses it to hold the pot as he tilts it a bit, checking that the cream hasn’t stuck to the bottom of the pot. Satisfied, he puts it back down and pulls out the spoon. 

They both watch as golden brown liquid drips back into the pot until Daryl finally turns his head again. His eyes somewhere on Rick’s collar bones. “’s hot.”  
With that, he makes to hand Rick the spoon, who awkwardly takes from him, confused. “I- shouldn’t you try it?”

At that, Daryl looks at him and Rick realises-  
Daryl already ate.  
He opens his mouth, but when nothing comes out, he raises the spoon, careful not to spill the caramel down his shirt, and puts it to his lips.  
The cream’s hot. Sweet. The wood is warm against his lower lip, not quite smooth, but somehow nostalgically homely. 

Daryl reaches out and catches a drop slipping down Rick’s thumb, hand awkwardly half-clasped around Rick’s. Rick’s mouth opens, the spoon a breath from his lower lip, eyes on the drop of caramel cream running down Daryl’s knuckles.  
A heartbeat, two, and Daryl pulls his hand back, tongue kitten-pink as he chases the drop between his knuckles. “Tastes alright to me.” 

“Yeah,” Rick says, clears his throat as Daryl’s eyes flick to his face. He hands the spoon back, Daryl’s wet knuckles catching the light. 

A last stir, scraping the bottom of the pot, and Daryl turns off the stove. Without the hiss of the gas, the sound of the cupboard door opening seems awfully loud in the intimacy of the trailer. 

Daryl gets a cup. A second one. He grabs the rag again and protects his hands as he pours the cream into the cups, filling one to the brim, the other about halfway. Another cupboard opens, bit of rattling, he hands Rick a spoon. When he closes that cupboard, Rick watches a drop of sweat slipping down his jawline, down his neck, underneath the shirt collar. Rick’s warm too, and he hasn’t stood by the oven the whole time. Cooking caramel cream for a stranger he found in the woods.  
Rick takes the cups and wanders over to the table.

Daryl sits with his elbows on the table, almost hunched over. His legs sprawled, Rick knows even with the table obstructing his view. He feels his boot pressing against his own.

The cream is awfully sweet, a shock to Rick’s empty stomach. It feels like pure honey pouring down his throat. Three spoons in and he’s feeling a little sick with it already.  
He takes it slow and doesn’t make conversation.

The flames flicker and seem to hide more of Daryl’s face than they show. With the posture and the hair to help the effect, Rick is left to his own imagination and the bright flash of metal in the dark. The wet-pink tongue. The sounds.

Caramel sticks to the back of his throat and he feels almost dizzy. He would blame it on the long day he’s had, the fading adrenaline, but he doesn’t feel tired. It’s buzzing under his skin. With a little sigh he melts back into the cushions, licking his sticky-sweet lips. 

Daryl looks up when Rick runs his hand through his curls. His eyes flicker down and he bites his lower lip. When he finally blinks up at Rick’s eyes again, looking at him through his lashes, Rick feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, sugar and heat tying his throat shut.

“Ya got some-“ Daryl’s hand twitches, almost moving into another direction before he touches the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. 

Rick licks the corner of his mouth, tasting sugar, feeling the heat in eyes. “Gone?”

Daryl’s thumb slips between his lips. Rick flicks his eyes down to watch how his teeth glint in the soft darkness of his mouth, sinking into the pad of his thumb. He hums softly, nods once. His knee presses against Rick’s. 

The fork clatters as Rick sets it down. Daryl’s leg twitches, his eyes searching, but he doesn’t pull away. When Rick stands, he just blinks up at him again.

“Ya want somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Rick says softly, and leans over the table.  
The tip of his nose brushes Daryl’s and when the other doesn’t tilt his head, Rick freezes for a second. He opens his mouth a little, about to ask whether he’s misunderstood-  
Daryl pushes up and his mouth is on Rick’s.

Immediately, time slows down. Daryl’s breath tickles Rick’s lips, a cool brush on wet skin and Rick deepens the kiss, greeted by milky caramel. It tastes better mixed with Daryl’s saliva and Rick reaches out, tangles his fingers in Daryl’s hair. 

The brush of lips on lips doesn’t feel enough, even with the little hints of Daryl’s tongue. Not to mention that the angle is awkward. His neck straining, the edge of the table is digging into his hip, Still, he waits until his lungs burn before pulling away. Saliva on Rick’s bottom lip, almost spilling over before Daryl licks it off, a hot-wet flash that vibrates through Rick’s spine. He wants to push in again, but Daryl slips away. 

Rick watches Daryl as he gets up, grabs a candle. His hand is shaking a little and his eyes wander from place to place, burning Rick wherever they brush over him. Finally, Rick gets up as well and that seems to be what Daryl’s been waiting for. He tilts his head, tilts his chin up in a way that feels like a challenge to Rick. So he steps in, hand raised to slide over his collar bones to his throat, but Daryl steps out of reach again, shaking his head. “Didn’t get up t’do this standing up.”  
The candle. Rick looks over Daryl’s shoulder into the darkness and he feels his blood cooking, burning his veins from the inside. He nods once.

The bed is unmade, the candlelight dancing over the tangled mess of what looks like three to four woollen blankets. Back here, the air tastes like dust and warm wood. Rick barely waits for Daryl to put the candle down before he pulls him in by the wrist, feeling his pulse under his thumb. They’re the same height, but Rick only has a moment to appreciate that before Daryl unceremoniously shoves him down. 

It feels like fighting, the mess of limbs, Daryl’s fingers in his curls, his teeth scraping against Rick’s beard. The adrenaline, the heat, the almost violent lust pumping through Rick.

It takes a few attempts to kick his boots off, Daryl on his lap grinding down against his writhing, slowing the process down further. Distracting him with the hot pleasure that sparks through him, driving him wild until the left shoe finally gives as well and he surges up, one hand tangled in Daryl’s hair, the other on his jaw. Daryl moans against his mouth. 

When he grinds down again, Rick feels the hot line of his cock through all those layers. He tightens his grip, holding Daryl still to finally kiss him like he wanted to before, sugar-crusted hair wrapped around his hand, mouth held open, wet and welcoming. Daryl’s hands squeeze his shoulders, one ends up on his neck, holding Rick’s throat as Rick sucks on his lower lip, takes his time licking into his mouth. It’s too much, the air vibrating around them as Rick bites his lip, sucks on his tongue until Daryl’s hand tightens around his throat, making his breath stutter. When Rick loosens his grab on him, he pulls back a little. Chin and eyes shiny-wet in the candlelight. 

“Fuck man, y’wanna eat me or something?” His voice sounds wrecked. Fucked. Rick shoves him down.

Daryl makes a sound somewhat caught between moan and growl and goes straight for Rick’s belt, tugging it open and pulling the zipper down agonisingly slowly, holding it between index and middle finger to run the pad of his thumb down Rick’s cock as he goes. Even through the cotton of his underwear, it’s pure electricity, Rick’s hips grind down, back dipping, shoulders rolling, cock twitching. 

When Daryl slips his hand inside, eyes clear and curious, Rick finally gathers himself enough to pull back a little. He gets a few buttons undone before pulling his shirt over his head, but when he leans in again to do the same for Daryl, he grabs Rick’s wrist. 

“May I unbutton it?” 

At that, Daryl nods, and Rick leans in, nipping on his neck and undoing the buttons of his button down. Daryl’s hands slip over his back, his chest, hot and curious, but when Rick reaches the last button and moves down to suck on his collar bone, slip his tongue into the dip, Daryl pushes him back. He draws his legs up to fiddle with the laces on his boots with one hand, pulling in a rather uncoordinated fashion as he focuses on unbuttoning his jeans with the other hand. He’s not wearing underwear. Rick’s mouth goes dry and his cock pulses painfully. 

“Drawer.” Daryl says, completely ignoring the fact that his cock framed by the open jeans is frying Rick’s brain. He kicks at Rick’s hip with the foot he’s not currently fiddling with and Rick gets to it. 

The first drawer holds condoms, a little plastic bag with white powder and three or four prescription pill bottles. And another hustler. Rick closes it and tries the second. It’s empty on first glance, but he reaches in and finds the bottle of lube. He grabs the lube and tosses his watch into the drawer instead.

When he turns back, Daryl kicks his jeans off. Rick leans in, slipping easily between Daryl’s legs, watching the way his tanned hand contrasts with Daryl’s thigh. He ends up distracted when he reaches the swell of his arse, squeezing softly.

“Y’done this before?”

“Yeah, a while back.”

That answer makes Daryl huff and pull Rick’s hand off his arse, placing them on his waist instead. Fabric bunches between Rick’s fingers and he feels the warm body underneath, the muscles working when Daryl moves. The soft sound of a cap snapping open and shortly after Rick has to lean back a little to give Daryl some room when he reaches between them. He wants to watch, but Daryl wraps his free arm around his neck and pulls him into another kiss. 

This time, he’s close enough to smell the sheets, skin and warm dust. And Daryl, who smells like woods and sweat and caramel and a little like motor oil and fire. Whose thighs start trembling where they’re pressed against Rick’s side. He can’t keep up with the kiss and lets his head fall back instead, eyes closed and frowning like he’s confused by how good it feels, lips wet and panting. Rick feels desire choking him. 

He’s so caught up in it, in Daryl’s face, his scent and his own desire that the slick, warm hand on his cock is a shock that almost makes him come. He bites his lip and let’s out a sound closer to a whine than a moan, his hips fucking into Daryl’s slick fist. Daryl makes a little sound in the back of his throat and clenches his thighs around Rick’s hips. And yeah, Rick understands, but it’s so hard to keep still when he feels like he’s already fucking Daryl. Hot, slick, around his cock, Daryl’s other hand between his shoulder blades, he can hardly see straight.

However, it gets worse. Pushing into Daryl is like dying. He can count the times he’s fucked around without condoms and two fingers and this- this isn’t even close to that. Daryl is pulling him inside, tight and burning him up. He bottoms out and reality is slipping away.

Rick stays still, every muscle trembling, sweat running down his back, his brain melting. The air is thick and the scent of milky caramel and sweat drips through his nostrils. He’s shaking, his mouth wet with drool and desire. Something feral underneath his skin. Daryl leans in for a kiss, and Rick devours him.

Time and place seem to shake and melt around them, like they’re on a ship, out in the storm, the ground dipping and raising up. Daryl’s intake of breath is hot and sweet against the shell of Rick’s ear when he picks up the pace, his fingers tightening in Rick’s curls. Rick’s knees slipping on the sweaty sheets and his fingers dig into Daryl’s skin, his shirt, pulling him up and into him.  
It sounds like something scratches at the window above the bed, scratches, pats, fingertips and bones and teeth and Daryl tightens his thighs around Rick’s hips, pulls him in. “Don’t you fucking-“ 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rick gasps back, finds Daryl’s mouth and sucks the moans off his tongue and his lower lip until Daryl starts shaking. His voice is almost lost, almost purely animalistic, a soft growl, a gasp against Rick’s mouth. And Rick responds in kind, his hand finding the window, cool against his palm through the bunching fabric of the curtains and he uses that leverage to drive into Daryl harder, faster. Until Daryl’s nails dig into his neck and his hole is a hot-wet pulse, clenching, sucking him in and the windows rattle in their frames. Rick doesn’t know if it’s them or the outside, he can’t care as long as Daryl’s fire is burning him up.

Rick’s thrusts are almost too rough, he has to pull Daryl back onto his cock after every snap of his hips to make sure he doesn’t slip over the edge of the bed and his fingers dig bruises into Daryl’s hipbone. His is cock is harder than he remembers it ever being, painful and hot, unreal. He changes his angle barely and Daryl makes a sound Rick’s never heard before, something that doesn’t sound human. Something that Rick wants to hear over and over again because it sounds like Daryl feels it too, the fire, the madness bubbling between them. 

When Daryl comes, he clenches down and sinks his nails into Rick’s back, sounding surprised, desperate. It’s too much, too much, Rick feels like he’s suffocating, pleasure burning through him so intensely he feels it in his teeth, his soul. Daryl’s nails are drawing blood, the pain making him growl, snap his hips up.

He finally comes with Daryl’s voice in his ear, his come dripping down his chest and surreality choking him. He fucks Daryl through his own orgasm, unable to stop, eyes unfocused, tongue pressed against Daryl’s pulse and feeling possessed, wild, like something this good can’t possibly be real. 

When he finally slows down, collapses in a mess of sweat and shivering limbs and still half-blind with pleasure, he feels like a werewolf waking up the night after the full moon. Like his bones haven’t quite melted back into their usual form. Daryl groans softly.  
“Fuck, man.”

Now that he’s not moving anymore, it’s like the heat crashes over them like a wave. Intense, stinging like needles behind his eyes, pounding behind his ears. Rick huffs softly and feels something hot run down his nose to his lips before it drips on Daryl’s chest. He sighs and wipes away the sweat but when he looks at his hand with bleary eyes, it’s streaked in red. 

His head pounds and he stares at it for a second before he feels blood running down his nose again, spilling down on Daryl’s chest. He sits up with a curse, hand flying to his nose. The move startles Daryl, who sits up, reaches for him, then looks down.  
“Ah, man, really?” He mumbles as Rick’s blood runs down his chest, mixing with his own cooling come. “Up.”

He reaches down for his trousers and pulls them up, not bothering with belt or fly. Rick has a harder time getting up, his head still pounding painfully, blood spilling out between his fingers. When he pulls up his jeans, Daryl puts a hand between his shoulder blades and leads him to the front of the trailer, the door. “What-“ Rick’s voice is muffled behind his hands, but Daryl probably gets the gist of it. 

“’s dawn.”

And that can’t possibly be, that would mean they’d been in here for what, five or six hours? But when Rick looks at the curtain, he sees the tease of light slithering through. Daryl opens the door.

It feels like stepping out of a cinema, the real world rushing back into his lungs. Pine, oak, mud, cold. 

In the cool morning light the world around them doesn’t look real, drained of colour and cut out of paper, one-dimensional. The cold-hard steps that lead up to the trailer door dig into Rick’s bare feet and his arse as he sits down, next to Daryl who’s pushing his head until it’s almost between his knees. Rick finally remembers his handkerchief and pulls it out, presses it against his face as blood bubbles out of his nose. Wet and hot, like the madness of the last few hours is leaving his body. 

He senses it when Daryl leans to the side, but the cold, crunchy, absolutely disgusting sensation of a handful of dirt on his bare neck still makes him jump. Daryl is completely unfazed and presses down firmly. The scent of forest floor sinks into Rick’s nostrils, pine needles tickling his neck. Dirt falling down his shoulders. It’s cool, almost wet. Soothing. Rick feels its effect, the blood flow getting stronger for a second, then lessening as his hot, pounding head slowly cools down.

There’s the hiss of a match again and the scent of cigarette smoke fills the air. Rick distantly wonders how Daryl managed to light a match one handed. Where he keeps the matches. Or the cigarettes. How the sheets didn’t give away that he smokes. What else there is to know about him.

A soft exhale. “Better?” 

Rick tries nodding. His head doesn’t protest much.

“Stay put.” 

Carefully, Daryl pulls his hand away and dirt and leaves rain down onto Rick’s lap. Without Daryl’s hand to hold the mess down, it feels absolutely fucking disgusting.  
There’s a clatter as Daryl gets up and the trailer shakes a little as he gets in again. The sound of a sink, hissing water. 

Daryl returns, brushes over Rick’s neck. The warm, dry skin against his neck makes the cold morning air even more apparent. Sweat is cooling on Rick’s skin.  
“I’ll- hold still.”

Without another option, Rick holds still. A cool, wet fabric on his neck, carefully cleaning him up. Water licking down his spine. He shivers, feels his nipples tightening almost painfully, goose bumps on his arms. When Daryl is done and sits down again, their shoulders brush, the fabric of his shirt warm against Rick’s skin. 

Finally, Rick dares to lift his head. He doesn’t dare to breathe through his nose yet, but he feels better already. His skull no longer seems to crack open at the seams.  
When he closes his eyes, he feels Daryl’s eyes on him. 

It’s still sizzling under his skin. Low heat, but still warm. Maybe- and he lets himself slip into that maybe for a moment, let’s the first wind of the day dry the blood that’s spilled down to his chin. 

Rick opens his eyes and turns to look at Daryl, sees the red handkerchief from earlier. Water is dripping down between Daryl’s white knuckles. 

“Maybe we should get some sleep.” Rick says carefully. Daryl stops nibbling on his lower lip and the morning sun illuminates the first hint of a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly: Thank you so, so much for reading!!  
> Originally I wanted to post this whole thing on my birthday, the 23rd, but I simply couldn't finish it in time. Which brings me to my next point: I'm not a native speaker, so if you find any mistakes - I'm very sorry! And please tell me? That would be sweet!  
> (Also I am really no expert on action/horror?/spooky things happening. So if you'd like to, tell me how I did with that as well?)
> 
> Alright! Two things I wanted to include but didn't, since they would've stretched the fic too much and I couldn't work them in smoothly.  
> a) a scene where Daryl at the end revels that his last name is Dixon, Rick going "ohhhhhhhhh Dixon" and Daryl being like "yeah, didn't want to ruin the mood, deputy" and Rick going :0 (but like...he's walking around w agun, wrestling knives from people, he also was supposed to say that he last fucked with a guy "in the academy" and Daryl isn't an idiot). 
> 
> b) The whole backstory for the shapes and basically..everything that's going on. A bunch of pilgrims buried their dead on sacred native american grounds (as they did) and those people couldn't find peace. They hunt the woods once a year, on the Autumnal Equinox (which happens to be september 23rd, aka my birthday. hehe). The nature of these walkers isn't entirely discussed, but since they've been around for a very long time, people know not to walk the forest on this night. I think they might consume your soul or lead you away into their burial grounds, never to be seen again. (Unless a hot hilbilly tracker dude picks your sorry butt up that is)
> 
> And another note! What Daryl is so sweetly cooking for Rick is Dulce de Leche. We don't really use condensed milk in my household, but when I read the lazy version of the recipe where you put the can into a pot of water and let that boil, I really wanted to use that in this story because the sticky sweetness and the heat were elements I found very appealing. Especially like this. Just boiling the can to save the trouble, I could imagine him and Merle doing that so well. BUT then I actually used condensed milk in a cake recipe on my birthday and as I opened the can, it splattered all over my hand. And in that moment I knew that I had to include that visual somehow. So Daryl stabs the cans and gets all sticky. 
> 
> Finally: The nosebleed! I included that since I got them more or less often when I had low blood pressure in my teens, and it's so surreal and so weird. I remember I got them one time on a hot summer's day because I hurried up the stairs into the attic, where it was very hot. That is also what's happening to Rick here: Heat + exhaustion + dehydration. He's fine.
> 
> (I also was considering to make a whole series of songfic-style works, for different pairings? Mostly because I find the collection title "The Dancing Dead" really funny..)
> 
> Alright! One LAST and very awful thing. Maybe you already heard that the EU passed some very concerning articles on september 12th. The future of fanfiction for example is looking very very grim. You can read about it [here](http://spiritinggently.tumblr.com/post/178015495944/europe-just-voted-to-wreck-the-internet-spying-on) and [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/FanFiction/comments/8nae3k/european_union_proposes_law_that_would_ban/). [AO3 has also written a post about this (which sounds a lot more hopeful thank god, but still!!!)](https://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/11153). I can't begin to explain how fucked up and bad and awful that is. Not only for ao3 and fanfiction, of course, but web privacy in general. Remember Net Neutrality? It's like that. Both links have further information and tips on what can be done. If you enjoy content made by Europeans (such as myself) or are European, please please educate yourself on this!! It's not only fanfiction that could be affected, fanart and youtube content as well - basically everything that comments, parodies or somehow works with copyrighted content. PLEASE DON'T IGNORE THIS.
> 
> I think that's it. Thank you very much for reading and if you'd leave kudos or even a comment, I'd really appreciate that! You have no idea how much comments brighten my day and motivate me :)  
> Thanks again, and have a nice day!


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